The Fullmore Saga
by mrbalaclava
Summary: A tale of Gondorian pride and strength against adversity as the gates of Mordor fill middle earth with Sourons plague. Will our unlikely hero Fullmore manage to avoid, a)falling from his horse, and b)getting killed, or will the dark mysteriouse cloaked ma
1. Chapter 1 : The Clatter of Hooves

Ratin: R Type: Action/comedy

Disclaimer: I am merely a poor fool, I know nothing of the world of which I speak the events, and I own not any of the characters which have appeared elsewhere in Tolkien literature or cinematography, what I do own are mere works of fiction and exist purely in the context that I place them.

Notes: This may eventually be a bit of a spoiler, but this chapters pretty clean, only R rated so it's a nice easy introduction to the main character.

Set in Gondor toards the end of the second book, just as things near Mordor get a bit heated, and well, you'll see the rest.

Feedback will be greatfully accepted, along with any writers block relief, i.e. suggestions

Thankyou and enjoy the story.

Chapter 1

Fullmore rode hard, his horse, black but for the glistening streaks of white sweat flecking his hide like dwarven jewels, his haunches shuddered with the shere effort of the gallop. As horse and rider thundered unstoppably along the streets of the once great city of Osgiliath, the ancient cracked marble slabs pounded once more by the latest of many thousands of passengers which they have bourne. Statues, once upright and proud, lay at broken angles, like the jagged peaks of Ephel Duath to the South East. Their shadows were cast long across the wide piazzas and ancient carriageways. The shadow of Mordor's foul overlord Sauron, too haunted this place, spreading wide its deathly chill. Fullmore's ears rang with the nasgul screams, the roars otf their dark beasts and the sounds of battle carried to him on the gentle Easterly wind.

But nothing could distract him from his task, as he beat his fine Rohanion steed, Raynin, into a frenzy of speed, the message which he carried echoed in his mind, its importance clear even to him, a lowly outrider of the Gondorian foot. For that was his place in life, and in war. Not to fight, but to carry the messages and orders upon which the army relied, more than it did on arms and armour. He had, of course received his half day of compulsory combat training, and been granted his horse, his plate armour and helmet, and the short sword, which, as the very sign of his loyalty to the Stewards of Gondor, he carried with reverential pride and serviced regularly with oilcloth and oil.

Despite the relative mass production of this simple weapon, it was still a fine example of its art, equal to any blade forged by the races of men, and in Fullmore's humble opinion, even to the fabled blades of the elven forges. Though, this opinion was based on little more than Gondorian pride, Fullmore never having seen an elf, let alone held one of their weapons.

Man and steed hurtled through street after street, ally after ally, to any onlooker they must have seemed merely a glint of silver armour and a blur of black, hide and tunic, rider and mount, in both vision and purpose, made as one. And there were many onlookers, though few took the time to observe the graceful movement of the well-born steed and the admirable effort of its rider, as he clung determinedly to the black leather reins. To the warriors marching eastward, little of the momentous event of Fallmore's passing crossed their troubled minds other than thoughts of a slightly earlier death, under the heavy hooves of the bit chomping, frothing black monstrosity which bore down on them along the narrow rubble strewn street. The men dived out of its path with as much haste as they could muster, only a very few cursed the rider and even fewer thought of obstructing his hectic passage through their ranks.

"It can't be far now," thought Fullmore, the burden of his onerous task beginning to trouble his mind. He glanced left and right, more in hope of finding some landmark than in belief that he actually would. For a second he thought he recognised a crossroads, but he couldn't be sure, the surrounding buildings were levelled to cellar height, and the statue only one of a thousand other likenesses of the great Stewards of old. By his rough reckoning he was near to the Eastern Market, where he had once run away from his parents following an argument over a hobby-horse to which he had taken a liking, though he was sure he wouldn't recognise the market anymore, the stall long gone and the once grand fountain most probably runs red with the blood of Gondor if it runs at all. Where exactly he was he had little idea, he had long ago abandoned the map with which he was provided, and which now permanently resided in his saddlebag. The great thoroughfares and buildings so carefully marked on it, now little more than piles of rubble and fine marble dust. Now he had little more than his wits and luck to guide him, and that was little indeed.

Today though it seems he was either in luck or in good wits, for ahead over a mound of rubble, which judging by the carving on the sole standing doorpost, was, in a former life, an alms house, he sighted the assortment of flags and standards which accompanied the battlefield generals entourage. Fullmore breathed a sigh of relief and sunk down into his high saddle, and carefully guided the tired but still alert Raynin through the rubble towards the bright regalia, which marked the end of this errand and the beginning of the next.


	2. Chapter 2 : Boy or Man

Disclaimer: I Mr Balaclava, hereby reject any claim that I, the above named and aforementioned, own, or have created any of the characters of whom these assembled parties have heard prior mention.

Notes: This may eventually be a bit of a spoiler, this chapters pretty clean, R rated so it could all get a bit bloody, depending on my mood.

Set in Gondor towards the end of the second book, just as things near Mordor get a bit heated, and well, you'll see the rest.

Chapter 2

As Fullmore dismounted, all eyes were firmly fixed upon him, boring holes through him, searching for the purpose of his existence. Fullmore could feel the collective searching gaze, and he did his very best to nonchalantly shrug it off, the gravity of his mission dictating it should be carried out with dignity and valour. His attempts towards this were admirable, though not helped by his left foot, which had resolutely fastened itself to his stirrup, and was refusing to free itself. This leaving him in the rather embarrassing position of hopping on one foot, in public, while attached to a horse.

Why he had been given such a large horse he had no idea, as standing just a little over five foot, eight, he had a great deal of difficulty pulling himself into the saddle and dreaded ever having to leave it. Raynin however, had become more than just a soulless mount to him, he was a friend and companion. But under his breath he cursed the black stallion, "Blasted horse, couldn't you just crouch a little, some thing at least?" At this, Raynin looked round at the struggling outrider with what to all intents and purposes, Fullmore was sure was a smirk.

"you would laugh wouldn't you!" he muttered angrily.

After several failed attempts to extricate himself from his predicament, and when he had all but given up, when a firm hand gripped his ankle in a vice like grip, and pulled it from the stirrup, with little or no regard for Fullmores comfort, and or dignity. The force of this rescue left Fullmore sprawling on the ground unceremoniously. Then, after, several moments of contemplation, and when Fullmore had decided that it would be an opportune moment, he stood up and dusted himself down. As he did so a gruff, unannounced voice at his left ear said, "look lively now boy, you are in high company!" Fallmore, about to point out indignantly that he just looked young for his age, that being twenty one, finished digesting the forceful words and snapped rigidly to attention, bowing his head in reverence for the assembled entourage of high command.

There followed, what seemed like an age of nothingness, a silence which bore sown on Fullmore like a heavy suit of armour, its weight forcing his eyes to the ground, his shoulders slumped pathetically. He dare not look up for fear of the dignitaries whom he would be forced to lay his unworthy gaze upon. Then, just as he thought he would be left to study the stitching on his boots for all eternity, the laughter began.

It came in a great deluge, like the great storms of the north beating against the fragile canvas of a campaign tent. Fullmore's face reddened as all around him he was very publicly mocked. One rose high above the others, as the loud bellows became an even louder voice, the most pompous and luxuriant voice the lowborn Fullmore had ever heard.

"My dear boy,"…this time Fullmore remained silent, "what have you brought for me?"

The question was asked as of a child, but, despite this patronising tone, Fullmore couldn't help but offer an answer,

"Errm…., a m..message, for command" he stuttered hesitantly.

"Yes, but what does it contain laddie?" the voice now sounding more aggravated by Fullmore's timidity, but remaining ever jolly, as if a cheerful attitude could, alone bring a stop to the hoards bearing down on them from the gates of Mordor. Fallmore was painfully shoved towards the voice by a helpful hand, his ribs showing the signs of his earlier falls from Raynin, during which he had acquires a number of cracked ribs. After fumbling in his haversack, he looked up for the first time, proffering the envelope with which he had been entrusted.

Before him was a long table, of the portable variety, heavily laden with food of every kind and as many varieties of wine, all served in fine crystals. The table was topped with a pristine white cloth and bedecked with brightly burning candles. The voice could only have emanated from one of the five diners. The central man, large to the extent that he had long since abandoned armour of any kind, and it would appear, would also soon be forced to abandon his tunic, its buttons looking heavily strained as it was and he contrasted greatly with the relatively athletic build of his fellow diners, all military men. The napkin on his left shoulder was streaked with the greasy residue of the many fine meats on the table, all of which caused Fullmore to salivate heavily, its fine lacework clogged and hidden. In his right hand, he wielded a large leg of pheasant, and with this he conducted the small army of servants and aides that scurried around him.

As Fullmore watched, mouth agape, one of the aides snatched the small wax-sealed envelope which he was holding out loosely and unconsciously as he observed this farcical scene of excess in front of him. The aide handed the note, now opened, to the tables demagogue, who, taking it in one ham fist, glanced at it once and handed it straight back to the aide,

"Read this for me Duar," and then, conspiratorially towards Fullmore, "once you rise this high boy, life becomes considerably more comfortable!" and as the aide began to read, Fullmore had no intention of doubting this statement.

"To whom it may reach," the aide began….

Thankyou for your continued interest

I thought a bit of corruption and excess seems right up the proverbial Gondorian alley.


	3. Chapter 3 : Toy Soldiers

Disclaimer: I know nothing, sand, in the word of Manuel the most famous of bellboys I acknowledge that, LoTR is none of my fault, just blame Tolkien. Fullmore, Luthor and Co. are, sadly mine own.

Notes: This may eventually be a bit of a spoiler, this chapters pretty clean, R rated so it could all get a bit bloody, depending on my mood.

Set in Gondor towards the end of the second book, just as things near Mordor get a bit heated, and well, you'll see the rest.

Chapter 3

the aide began in as grandiose a voice as the small, diminutive bespecled man could muster, his high pitched voice barely audible above the distant sounds of battle. The man continued, his voice cracking as it struggled to reach the appropriate level. But he continued, raisin his chin and puffing out his chest, a man clearly enjoying the levity of the job with which he had been entrusted and determined to make the most of the occasion.

"The southern wall is breached, we must act fast, re-deploy our reserves or all is lost"

Silence had once again fallen over the assembled party, that is, all but the table's central character, for whom it appeared, nothing came before food.

"And that is signed, Sir Gwigwyn, sir," continued the now hoarse aide.

The party remained silent as the general finished his mouthful and washed it down with a swill of blood red wine. He dabbed his lips daintily with a corner of his napkin before folding his arms over his ample stomach and seemingly sinking deep into thought. The air was still with the staying power of suspense as all ears remained ready to hear some great words of wisdom and strategy, Fullmore too, heart beating strongly, and a prickly heat spreading across his tired, sweat filmed skin, as he was drawn by invisible strings towards the great oracle at the tables centre.

Then, just as the air was becoming too heavy to breathe, the showman, in absence of any of his former joviality and with a ruthless frown on his brow, asked, "Who is this, Sir Gwigwyn?" he said these words with evident disdain, as if their stench sickened him to the point of convulsion, "I know not his name!"

At this bidding, a second aide spoke up, "I believe he refers to Sir Gwigwyn, son of Gwigwill, of the house of Gwullghar, and I believe, third cousin of Lord Denthor, through the maternal lineage, it's a very interesting family actually…..

"I am no hobbit sir!" Shouted the now red-faced and angry general, making Fullmore jump visibly, only held on his feet by the supportive hand of the stranger who had aided his less than graceful equine acrobatics of a few minutes earlier.

"What is his command?" continued the furious princip.

"I believe he commands the 1st Battalion, City Guard Sir." Replied a third aide, keen not to fail where his two predecessors had.

"A bloody toy soldier, weekend warriors should not presume to command this armies generals, dictate for me some one!"

Several of the flamboyantly dressed aides leapt for their parchment scraps and quill-pens, Fullmore counting at least five men writing as the general began to speak.

"Sir Gwigill…."

"..err, Gwigwyn Sir," said a junior officer whose bravery obviously matched his bank balance, his golden plate armour emblazoned with the Tree of Minas Tirith, sparkling brightly in the setting winter sun.

The general continued, his annoyance at the young upstart made clear, "Of course, of course, now, Sir Gwi…, whatever he's called. It is with much displeasure that I received your , 'request!' The forces are far overstretched as it is, none can be spared, it is vital that we maintain our lines of retreat and that we maintain the security of the headquarters. That, my 'friend' will keep this army safe, I will do my job, you do yours. You are the city Guard so see to it!"

As the impassioned man finished his fusillade there was still more stunned silence, the many officers barely believing their ears, but equally unwilling to speak their minds. In these men Fullmore recognised the traits of a thousand frontline officers who, his short experience of war, have unquestioningly thrown the lives of their men away for little more than respect of the chain of command. And any chain that leads to the imbecilic, pompous, porcine figure, in Fullmore's mind could never be anything but a failure.

"And I suppose I should let the man know who his superior is, no pleasantries I feel. Just, Lord General Luthor!"

Luthor held out his for the note and one of the five was handed to him, he took off his signet ring, heated the wax in the nearest candle, and with the flourish of a seasoned paper pusher he stamped his seal, a crowned tree, onto the tie cord. It was then passed, via an aide, to the still more dumbstruck Fullmore.

"Well, be off with you boy," said Luthor, any sign of pleasantry now gone. At length Fullmore stowed the order in his tatty haversack and turned away to mount his horse. The entourage, once again surrounded the high table excluding the lowborn son of a farrier, the man who had seen more death and misery in his short lifetime than they in their whole existence.

He had with a little difficulty he swung himself into Raynin's high saddle, and coaxed the horse into motion when a figure, obscured by a long grey hooded cloak, which hid his face in shadow, grasped the bridle. From within the cowl, a soft, almost effeminate voice arose,

"I would have word with you young rider."

The voice held an accent the un travelled Fullmore was unfamiliar with, but it was a calming waif like voice with an authority born not out of wealth, but knowledge, and above any surprise in lieu of the preceding events, Fullmore was willing to accept any authority other than that of Luthor. As he was lead away Fullmore vowed never to forget that name.

Sorry it's a bit late, got exams at the moment!

Mr V


	4. Chapter 4 : Revelations of a Rose

Disclaimer:

Shall I compare this to a Tolkien?

It is more modern and less wordy,

Rough sentences do trouble the pages so sweet

And characters in his are not found,

I guess not then, oh well, it's his world, enjoy.

Notes: This may eventually be a bit of a spoiler, this chapters pretty clean, R rated so it could all get a bit bloody, depending on my mood.

Set in Gondor towards the end of the second book, just as things near Mordor get a bit heated, and well, you'll see the rest.

Chapter 4

The cloaked man led Raynin and the hapless Fullmore out of earshot of the pomp and regal display of the high table, there; he softly bade Fullmore wait a while as he mounted his horse, a fine grey mare. The horse, its powerful haunches reminiscent to Fullmore of so many of the cart-mares who he had helped his father to shoe, and as the pair continued their travel, through the ruins of the old city, past the houses of the crumbling tenement blocks, a million miles away from the green fields of Fullmore's home, he remembered.

Across his mind, shot images of cornfields, of sunlight glades, in enchanting copses. Of playing, hours on end with his twin sister. Fuilyiadel, he remembered how the other children had laughed at her name, but to Fullmore the peculiarity of the name was unnoticed, he had entered into his first brawl in defence of his sister, after one particularly cruel girl had pulled at her ears. But with these memories of happiness and youth, he remembered the day that she had left the farm, left behind the barn, the cattle, the butterflies and the magical glades. An image of his mother, crying into his fathers chest flashed across his vision, and he saw himself, running alongside the horse of the green-clad and hooded man who had come to collect her, waving and wishing her a good holiday, and even, in jest cursing her for having been picked to visit Minas Tirith. It didn't take him long to realise, he wouldn't ever see his sister again. His parents did their best to erase her from memory, but Fullmore would never forget his closest friend, the sister who's feelings and thoughts he still felt to that day, he knew she was alive.

He woke with a jolt, they had reached the inner enclave of the most rich, still relatively untouched by the ravages of war, but long deserted by its occupants, anything that could be taken, was gone, removed either by its owners or the hands of men of slightly, though only slightly, less repute. They continued, until, ducking under an elegant archway, the cloaked man, entered what had once been a secluded private garden, where one of the great and good of Osgiliath would have entertained his guests with fine wine and music. The air was still laden with the heady scent of affluence, the perfume of a thousand beautiful socialites, and a few not so beautiful. Fullmore dismounted carefully, gripping hold of a trelace upon which a ragged, un-pruned honeysuckle grew. Slithering to the ground, he noticed the man who had accosted him standing in a darkly shadowed corner of the garden room, gently holding a shrivelled rose which he had chosen from amongst a carpet of the mournfully scented blooms, their colour long darkened, till the remnants of their former grace was shown only in the sharp vicious thorns which sprouted from the stems. Fulmore approached the man, and stood, watching him as he gently ran his fingers against the crumbling petals, He wasn't sure whether the feeling of sadness which was filling his mind was coming from the thoughts of the earlier meeting, the sadness of the place, or from some higher presence, but as he drew closer to the shadowed man, the feeling grew stronger, 'Could this man be the source of such strong emotion?' Fullmore thought to himself, how could one man make him feel like this?

Fullmore stood in silence for a few more moments, and as the feeling became unbearable, and the tears began to well up in his eyes, the man spoke, just as calmly and softly as before, with a hint of sadness,

"We were once like this rose," he said, "We were once perfection, bright, radiant and graceful, but now we are none but a faded, blackened effigy of our former perfection! We have crumbled and fallen, and why? Because, at our hearts we care little for this world, our honour is meaningless, and shallow, we are a lost race!"

There were a few more seconds of silence, before Fullmore felt it was appropriate to ask his question.

"Err... who exactly is we...I mean, if you don't mind me asking err..Sir?"

The man, holding the rose carefully between first-finger and thumb, raised his left hand to his hood, and in one graceful motion he swept it backwards off his head, and as he did so the light of this platinum blonde hair seemed to light up the dingy corner, highlighting, in gold each of the raggedly hewn shale blocks that made up the fashionably rustic wall. As Fullmore looked on, his jaw dropping until it seemed his knees were supporting it, he gaped for breath and said,

"An Elf, my god, your an Elf!"

He hadn't noticed, but he was on his knees in automatic reverence of the being who, was, to him, as close to godlike as Fullmore was ever likely to meet.

The Elf looked thoughrilly bemused by this display of respect, but clearly deciding to make the most of it he spoke of everything of which he had once been proud, of the history of the Elves. He spoke with a reverence which Fullmore had not heard ever before, and with a sorrow deep enough that Fullmore felt more tears well up in his eyes than had reason to be there, but the Elf cut short his tale.

"And, you are about to ask, why I say we are fallen."

He looked down at the bloom he held in his hand, and turned it slowly between his long slender fingers, as he did so, it grew, the stalk greened and its shrivelled surface was pulled taut by some unseen force, and, as he watched, the petals, lightened, the grim darkness of death receded and the flower was once again the deep red colour of its long lost youth.

Fullmore was amazed and incredulously, he asked, "How... how did you do that?"

He handed the now beautiful rose to Fullmore and turned away. When looked at the rose, Fullmore saw it was dead once again, the petals crumbled to dust in his hand and he dropped the stalk in shock.

Laughing quietly, the Elf turned back, saying, "The method is of no importance! What is important is that, we, the Eldar have a chance once more to be great!"

"You see, once we made a promise, that we would stand side by side with the race of men, and so, at Numenor, where Sauron betrayed the trust of men, the Last Alliance was formed, Elves and men vowed to defeat Sauron as one. So, following each other, from victory at Dagorlad, and to the very foot of Saurons dark tower, and through the siege of seven years that followed, where man and Elf fell together, side by side. Gil-Galad, Elendil, his son Anarion, all gave their lives to save the world of men!"

Fullmore, was still silent, mute at the passion, and pride emanating from the being in front of him, he thought of the stories he had been told, of the final battles against Sauron, of Isuldur, of Elrond, and the great kings of old, of the passing of the One Ring, to Anarion and from there into legend.

The Elf continued, "But that isn't the tales end, for the ring was not lost forever, it was not passed into legend, it still exists, it still threatens, broods, plans our destruction, I have seen it, felt its presence, I know fear. So that is why I, Elrohir, son of Elrond of Beleriand and of the lineage of Earendil, come, seeking a man, of great lineage, of great destiny, one who will be of great consequence in the coming end of the One Ring."

"Just who is it you are looking for?" Fullmore inquired.

"The man, news of whom I seek is of the line of Nimrodel, betrothed of Amroth who entered the Erad Nimrais and was lost to this world for many millennia hence, through the maternal side, he will be of the third line of the Eotheod of old, and a man of the Westfold. He will be a man, of birth foretold, twenty years prior to this day. And I am foretold to meet with him this day!"

Fullmore, his mind overwhelmed by the barrage of countless aeons of history, and by thoughts of who exactly this man could be, stuttered,

"And you came looking for, me?"

Mr V


End file.
